


If Your Friends Don’t Dance, Well, They’re No Friends of Mine

by Elany, noos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Happy Birthday Fira!, I'm actually impressed with how fast I managed to finish this one, M/M, So yeah, alot of wishful thinking, and I love these idiots alot, and that's gotta mean something, even Elany is impressed tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elany/pseuds/Elany, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noos/pseuds/noos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And as if it's not bad enough that Jogi has apparently gone on a quest to fulfill his wildest prison warden fantasies, now Mario wants to spend what's left of their short break for the day talking to a guy that Marco doesn't really know, and is rather afraid of, if he's being completely honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Your Friends Don’t Dance, Well, They’re No Friends of Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acciothirteen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciothirteen/gifts).



> Happy happy happy birthday Fira! <3333333333333333333333
> 
> So, we kinda had to do this, and it's kinda ridiculous how fast we /knew/ exactly what to do. It's just a crapful of wishful thinking, so hopefully you'll like it?
> 
> Obviously, I had nothing to do with the masterpiece at the end of this fic, that's all Elany. On the other hand, she beta'd the fic, so blame her if anything's wrong with it. I only wrote it. 
> 
> Hope you had a great, Marco-filled birthday bb! <3
> 
> Title from the song by Men Without Hats.

"No, Mario. Come on. We are not about to do this." 

 

This is so not how Marco wanted to spend his break. Jogi's been running them thin for the past week, holding two training sessions every single day, and planning for "strategy sessions" on their days off. As if Marco has any clue what the hell that even means. All they've done so far on those days is watch reruns of old games. And while the prospect of watching a football match sounds marginally better than having the coaching staff yell at him to run faster under the scorching sun, when all he really wants to do is to stop running and plummet face first into the grass, it gets tedious after the third rerun, especially when Schneider insists on stopping the recording every other minute to show them how they can improve their "positioning."

 

Bunch of sadists, all of them.

 

And as if it's not bad enough that Jogi has apparently gone on a quest to fulfill his wildest prison warden fantasies, now Mario wants to spend what's left of their short break for the day talking to a guy that Marco doesn't really know, and is rather afraid of, if he's being completely honest. 

 

"Come on, Marco," Mario pleads, pouting as he turns to look at Emre across the room again. "Look at him. He looks like a sad puppy."

 

"Okay, first of all, the sad puppy? He's twice your size," Marco argues, pinching his nose and closing his eyes, willing his head to stop hurting. Why? Why does Mario feel the need to help everything and everyone in his path, even those who don't actually require his help? "Second, he might not even be sad. Maybe this is just how he looks. I mean, I know he hasn't been on the international team for that long, but have you ever actually seen him smile? I don't think he smiles. Khal Drogo didn't smile."

 

"Khal Drogo also made his wife eat a horse's heart,” Mario offers, tugging on Marco’s hand. “Besides, he might be twice my size, but he's younger than me. He might need some advice from someone who's older and wiser."

 

"Jesus Christ, Mario, you're like a year older than he is!" Marco cries out in frustration, leaning back dramatically on the sofa they're sharing in the hotel lobby.

 

Mario turns to look at Marco and narrows his eyes at him. Marco can feel the clogs in his brain ticking. He's about to get his way. Marco can _feel_ it. They're about to meddle in things that don't concern them. It's about to happen. Someone make it stop.

 

"He might be my teammate next year if Kloppo has any say in it," Mario remarks offhandedly, raising one eyebrow at Marco before looking away. 

 

Marco cannot stop the scandalized gasp that escapes him. He narrows his eyes at Mario, unsure if he wants to kill his boyfriend or beg him to stay in that moment.

 

"Do _not_ even go there," Marco threatens, raising his finger menacingly before pinching Mario's bicep. It probably hurts him more than it hurts Mario, judging by the blank look on the latter’s face. Damn Kloppo and his miracle-working ways.

 

"I won't," Mario promises innocently. " _If_ you go over there with me to check on Emre."

 

Marco groans audibly as he allows himself to get pulled off the couch by his boyfriend, muttering under his breath as they make their way across the room and over to their newest teammate. And wow, he's a lot bigger up close than he is from afar. What is that arm? Who the fuck has biceps that big?

 

Emre looks up from his phone when he finally registerstheir presence, a confused look on his face. His eyes meet Marco’s, effectively snapping him out of his bicep-induced haze, before he turns back to look at Mario.

 

“Hi Emre!” Mario says, his voice chipper and a lot louder than necessary under the circumstances.

 

Emre looks at him blankly for a second longer before he breaks out in a grin, his sharp features softening alarmingly fast. It’s good to know that the Mario effect works even on giant right backs with unnaturally large biceps.

 

“Hey Mario.” He pauses for a moment as he watches him plop down next to him, before turning to look at Marco, his grin a lot more guarded this time around. Marco waves awkwardly as he moves to sit on Emre’s other side, his face contorting painfully into what he hopes is a smile. “Hi, Mar..co,” Emre adds like an afterthought, looking back and forth between his two teammates. “Is there anything I can help you with?” He asks after a moment, looking as confused as one would expect.

 

Marco raises his eyebrows at Mario behind Emre’s back, urging him to go on because he has no clue how Mario’s going to smoothly admit that he’s been staring at Emre like a creep for the better part of an hour and that he’s now looking to pry into matters that don’t concern him.

 

“Well,” Mario starts, a staggering chirpiness in his voice. “Marco and I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been staring forlornly at your phone for a while now.”

 

_Forlornly?_ Seriously? And Marco had a perfectly easy time forgetting Emre’s entire existence until Mario pointed it out, thank you very much.

“I- erm,” Emre mutters, swallowing audibly and chuckling nervously as he lowers his eyes and locks his phone. “For- what, um, I don’t know what forlornly means?”

 

Well. At least someone here has some sense.

 

“Sad,” Mario clarifies, a touch of frustration to his tone. “You look _sad_.”

 

“Oh.” Emre swallows audibly again, stuffing his phone into his pocket and wiping his palm against his pants. “I’m- not, I’m not sad.”

 

Marco nods mutely, getting ready to call it a day and get out of Khal Drogo’s hair.

 

“Okay,” Mario tells him after a moment, and Marco is honestly flabbergasted that his boyfriend is letting it go so easily. It’s mildly unsettling. “Okay,” he repeats, nodding Emre’s way. “But if you weren’t okay, you know, Marco and I are here to listen. We’ve been elected the best listeners on the team.”

 

Best listeners on the team. Sure. At least he can be sure that nothing’s wrong with Mario when he’s coming up with such marvelous bullshit.

 

“I’m fine,” Emre insists, smiling awkwardly at Mario and lowering his gaze.

 

“Okay, but if you weren’t-“ Mario starts but is interrupted by Marco who gets up and tugs at his wrist. The boy-giant is obviously in no mood to talk, and they are not about to test his patience. Marco doesn’t trust people that big. He doesn’t know what he’s capable of if he’s pushed.

 

Mario reluctantly allows himself to be pulled off the couch, sighing as Marco links their fingers together.

 

They’ve barely made it two steps when Emre clears his throat behind them.

 

“How did you guys get together?” He asks in a low voice, stopping them both in their tracks, and Marco rolls his eyes when Mario lets out a squeak next to him.

 

It takes him half a second to reach Emre and plop back down next to him, urging Marco to do the same. Marco reluctantly does as he’s told, sighing as he takes his seat back.

 

“It’s way too long a story for such a short break,” Mario starts excitedly. “Basically, it took about a million and one mixed signals, some pretty impressive grand gestures, ruined goulash and house appliance shopping to make it work,” he brushes over it quickly, rolling his eyes at how many chances he and Marco missed. “Why do you ask?”

 

Emre’s quiet for a second before he leans back into the couch, looking from Marco to Mario and then back to Marco, who tries for his best encouraging look.

 

“There’s this guy on my team,” he starts hesitantly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and wiping at the screen, probably in an effort to distract himself. “On my other team,” he clarifies, looking between his two current teammates. “Liverpool.”

 

“Yeah, we got it,” Marco barks, not very fond of that particular team right now. First they take Kloppo, then they kick them out of the one competition they were favourites to win, and now they want Mario. Yeah, no, Liverpool is definitely on his shit list.

 

“What Marco means,” Mario picks up for him, shooting him a look, “is go on.”

 

“I think I like him,” Emre admits hesitantly, smiling to himself. “No, I know I like him.”

 

“Well, does he like you back?” Mario asks, his voice a lot more gentle now, smiling giddily at Emre.

 

“I don’t know,” Emre tells them, still grinning to himself. “I think he might, but then we don’t really speak the same language. Mostly he squeaks a lot around me.”

 

“Squeaking,” Marco nods, remembering a time when Mario used to only squeak around him. “Squeaking is good.”

 

“I just don’t know what to do about it,” Emre sighs, relaxing next to them, and Marco feels himself relax as well. This isn’t so bad. This guy really does seem like he needs their help.

 

“Well…” Mario starts, dragging the word and clicking his tongue before he continues. “You should definitely, definitely, _definitely_ stay away from all things Grease.”

 

Marco groans before nodding in agreement.

 

“All things Grease?” Emre repeats, raising one confused eyebrow at them.

 

“And surprise stripping sessions on Skype. Stay away from those. Those do not work,” Mario adds, wincing at the clearly painful memories.

 

“Take him to IKEA,” Marco suggests. Speaking of which, he really needs to go to IKEA. He’s running out of kitchen utensils. _I wonder when Mario’s free to go with me._

“IKEA?” Emre repeats again, snapping Marco out of it. Marco nods vigorously as Mario shakes his head in a firm no on the other side.

 

“No, don’t do that. That only works on a specific type of idiots,” he explains, rolling his eyes as Marco sticks his tongue out at him.

 

“I suppose you can always get a dog and then get rid of it,” Marco quips, crossing his arms against his chest and wrinkling his forehead as he looks at Mario.

 

“I did not get rid of it!” Mario protests, as Emre’s confusion clearly grows, his head moving splittingly fast back and forth between Mario and Marco. “Woody is still at Felix’s.”

 

“Give it to your brother, then,” Marco scoffs.

 

“My brother is allergic to dogs,” Emre tries to get a word in before he shakes his head and tries again. “Okay, do you guys actually have anything that can potentially help me?” He asks, his voice a little louder and a lot more frustrated.

 

Marco lets his guard down, easing back into the couch. They’re here to help the poor, confused giant.

 

“Yes!” Mario barks, glaring at his boyfriend before turning back to his teammate. “Sorry, yes, we do. It’s important to always stand by his side and let him know you’re there for him.”

 

“You should,” Marco agrees, melting a little despite himself. Mario certainly does that.

 

“I already do that.”

 

They’re all quiet for a moment as they mull things over, before a memory makes its way to the front of Marco’s thoughts, reminding him just how much he loves his boyfriend.

 

“What’s your stance on grand gestures?” Marco asks Emre after a moment.

 

“Grand gestures?”

 

“Yeah,” Marco nods. “Elaborate declarations of love. Telling him you want him in front of the entire world. Holding his jersey the entire time you’re celebrating winning the World Cup because he couldn’t be there for it.”

 

His eyes meet Mario’s for a long moment, the memory affecting them both in different ways, but ultimately leading them to the same conclusion. Fucking hell, despite everything, they love each other so damn much.

 

“I hate to break it to you, but I haven’t won the World Cup yet,” Emre says eventually, turning both their attention back to him. “And while it was hella romantic yet so easy to justify for you two, I’m pretty sure if I have his jersey when I win the World Cup, all hell is gonna break loose.”

 

“I like your enthusiasm,” Marco admits, happy to see how refreshingly confident Emre is that they’re going to win another World Cup soon.

 

“Okay, so a goal celebration,” Mario concedes.

 

“I’m a right back, Mario,” Emre states.

 

“You play in midfield with Liverpool, and I’ve seen you score some pretty impressive goals,” Mario argues, and it slightly annoys Marco just how much Mario knows about the red English team. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time a right back scores. We just have to make sure it happens in the next game.”

 

“Okay, suppose it works and I score the next game. I can’t exactly take off my Jersey to reveal Phil’s and hope that people won’t notice that I’m wearing a Brazil jersey with the name Coutinho on the back!”

 

“Brazil?” Marco repeats after him, his brow furrowing as he looks at Emre. “Was he there when they were thrashed 7 to-“

 

“He was and I never let him forget it,” Emre laughs good-naturedly, bumping his fist with Marco when the latter offers his hand.

 

“Good times,” Mario adds, laughing along with them. “Okay, so, the jersey won’t work. But is there anything at all that you own that reminds you of him, something that he alone will get? Something that you can potentially bring to the pitch?”

 

Emre’s quiet for a short breath before his eyes light up.

 

“He taught me some Brazilian dance steps. It’s some sort of half-assed samba, but we had a good half-hour of laughing a few training sessions back when we got paired up and he tried to teach me to dance.”

 

“Perfect. That’s perfect.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a miracle that they pull it off, really.

 

Marco and Mario spend the entire game against Portugal – which they win, by a landslide – sending cross after cross towards the front, where Emre is somehow always present. It’s an even bigger miracle that Jogi doesn’t actually pull Emre out when he nearly abandons his defensive duties as he tries to get that goal.

 

They pull it off in the 87th minute. They’ve almost given up, when Pepe trips Mario right outside the box on the left side, making for a perfect free kick spot. Marco sends the ball sailing over to the middle where Emre materializes out of nowhere to knock it in with his head. Mario and Marco probably celebrate harder than anyone on the pitch, their excitement impossible to explain, but they bump their fists in the air before they join Emre in the middle of the pitch where his teammates are congratulating him. They jump on him in their excitement, before they both pull away to stand in front of him. Emre’s grin widens as he looks at them and starts to awkwardly shake his hips, putting one foot in front of the other as he tries to mimic the steps Phil taught him.

 

Mario grins back at him before he, too, joins the dance, shaking his hips in what he thinks is a solo samba. Marco has no time to dwell on the fact that it looks more like he’s trying to hold in his bladder, because in that same moment Mario steps on Marco’s foot and glares at him, urging him to start dancing. Marco sighs and does as he’s told, smiling despite himself when Thomas struts over to them, his horse moves on full display, and Boa breaks into the running man a little further up the pitch.

 

Their teammates might have no clue what the hell’s going on, but they sure as hell are not going to miss a chance to dance.

 

* * *

 

“Phil. PHIL! Emre just scored!”

 

Alberto has seen Phil run over a hundred times, has seen him speed past players and hurdles at a lightning pace in his quest to get to the goal. But never in his life has he imagined he would see Philippe Coutinho race from the kitchen to the living room, jumping over a couch, a chair, and a million pairs of discarded shoes in the space of two seconds, while holding three bottles of beer in his hand, all because of the words Emre just scored. Never did he think he would see him cheer that hard either.

 

“What the hell is he trying to do?” Roberto asks next to him on the couch, furrowing his brow at the television. “Is he trying to dance? Is that a Samba he’s trying to pull off?”

 

Philippe doesn’t actually know what to say. So he squeaks as he hands his friends their beers, squeaks as he plops himself between the two of them, squeaks as he watches the man he’s crazy about make a fool of himself in front of the whole world, squeaks as he realizes he’s doing _their_ dance.

 

Hopefully by the end of the night, he’ll have let out all his squeaks. That way, next time he sees Emre, maybe he’ll actually talk to him.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
